Vanilla
by Indie Lolita
Summary: Valentine, a clever young secretary, needs a new job. Charlie Bucket needs an intelligent tutor. Willy Wonka needs somebody to love. When Willy hires Valentine to work at the factory, everyone might get what they desire the most. Willy/OC
1. Chapter the First: Valentine

Vanilla

Disclaimer: I do not own anything that you recognize as being derived from our beloved Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...but I do have a large supply of candy.

A/N: Simply a rather mad authoress' request for reviews!

It was a late night for Mr. Willy Wonka, his entire day revolved around finding a new flavor for his gobstoppers. The candy maker trudged into his glass elevator with a soft sigh, rubbing his empty stomach. He was swept away in his work with passion fruit tango flavored gobstoppers when he finally realized that he was late for dinner with the Buckets. Just the thought of warm bread and potatoes made the candy-maker's stomach growl. The elevator let out a sharp ping, reaching the candy wonderland that held the Buckets' humble shack. Willy ran his gloved hands over the creases and wrinkles on his usually immaculate violet coat as he stepped out into the expanse of sugar-snow covered hills. He walked upright, almost jauntily, towards the glow of the house, his cane imprinting small dots in the sugar. Before he reached up to rap gently on the door, Willy lifted his hand and swiped one finger over the brim of his impressive hat before putting the finger in his mouth. The sugar that had collected there tasted delightful, his old amore for sweets never dying. The face that Mrs. Bucket wore when she opened the rickety door was not her usual pleasant expression. Instead, the woman's dark eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth formed a thin line.

"It was those gobstoppers," Willy hastily explained, "the flavor...never right, and the candy boat was-"

"Willy," sighed Mrs. Bucket, placing a hand on his shoulder, "its Charlie."

Willy gazed over the woman's knit-clad shoulder to see the family huddled around the small boy in the crimson sweater, holding his hand and sobbing. Willy quickly glided over to the chair and kneeled to come face to face with the boy whose pale cheeks were stained with tears.

"My dear boy," he started, handing Charlie a gold handkerchief, "what...what happened?" Charlie let out a small hiccup through his tears and held up his hand to show angry red marks on his wrists. Willy swallowed hard, his violet eyes growing abnormally large.

"That school of his," growled Grandpa George, "that blasted teacher of his! Such barbaric discipline! I have never seen so much-"

Grandpa George continued to let out a tirade of colorful words, but Willy could guess their meaning. Charlie's school was a small quiet place on the backstreets of the city. Rich kids, poor kids, and middle-class kids alike went to Threetwood Academy for Today's Youth, a tall imposing skeleton of a building with stone-faced intimidating teachers. The worst of all was Mr. Bramwick, whose nasty gapped snarl, and thin spiderlike frame served as a gruesome representation of a horrible man. His favorite punishment was the hot leather strip that he kept warm and toasty over the flames, ready for any unfortunate pupil.

"We pulled him out, there's going to be no more of this," declared Mr. Bucket, placing a gently hand over his child's wrists. Willy let out a sigh and ran his hand over his hat, an old habit of nerves, as he stood up, reaching his full height once more. The quirky candy maker swung his long arms behind his back and gathered his thoughts for a second.

"Well," he quipped looking at the solemn faces around him, "it seems that Charlie, here, needs a tutor and it won't be hard to find someone who will want to work here at the Factory! It'll be a piece of chocolate covered cake!"

Willy Wonka was wrong.

It was a cold winter night and Valentine Halifax had finally made it home, snow dusting her small frame. Her old brown boots made the steps to her flat creak and groan, the wooden boards just as tired as she was. The soft glow of the lights above and the smell of warm bread made Valentine feel just a wee bit better. She smiled as she heard the voices of her father and sister, Poppy, through the frosted glass window. One rumbling baritone and one sweet soprano singing along to an old Yuletide carol reminded Valentine that Christmas was drawing near. Her trembling mitted hand gripped the iron door knocker and she gave it three slow raps. The door flew open to reveal a plump woman with graying blonde hair and warm rosy cheeks.

"Valentine," her mother whispered, "did you get it?"

Valentine's left arm cradled a large white red-striped bag, from which a trail of steam was rising into the air. Inside the bag there was a surprise for Mr. Halifax, a large chocolate birthday cake made from a batter of melted Wonka bars. The Halifax women had been planning it for months, saving every last cent to buy the savory treat.

"Of course Mother," muttered Valentine, looking past her mother's shoulder to see her father, a tall ginger man, sitting contentedly by the small fireplace.

"Come love, lets hustle to the stove before he wakes up from his nap," whispered her mother, sending her daughter an excited glance before gathering her skirts and moving into the back of the one room flat. Valentine removed her cream knit cap and shuffled into the cramped apartment, her pale nose turning pink with new warmth.

"Val," a voice hissed from behind a shaggy Persian rug that separated the flat in two, "come on already".

Valentine cringed at the use of her nick-name as her sister's face appeared behind the rug. Poppy Halifax was indeed lovely, with hair the color of chocolate covered cherries and eyes like glittering emeralds. These eyes were narrowed at the pair before them, a pale manicured hand beckoning the two other women behind the curtain. Valentine shrugged out of her old tattered coat and gingerly tossed it to dry near the fireplace, stepping around the piles of books and teacups to reach the rug.

She glanced at the cover of one book on top of a large pile and her eyes only had a second to read its title, "Jane Eyre", before her mother's plump pink fingers tugged at her arm. Behind the rug, there was a candlelit nook, a rusting iron oven and stove set, a cupboard with an unhinged door, and a small mat in the corner, decorated with a colorful patchwork quilt. On the mat sat Harry Halifax, the youngest member of the Halifax family, his chubby child fingers grasping a small wooden car.

"Harry!" exclaimed Valentine, rushing over to wrap her arms around the toddler, "How was your day, love? Did you help Mummy with the dishes?" The boy nodded his strawberry blond head excitedly, pointing a finger to a pile of shiny yet cracked blue plates and bowls.

"Will you, 'alentine," he asked, thumb in mouth, "will you take me to get a scrum-scrum," the boy struggled with forming the word on his lips, which were pale and chapped.

"You mean a Wonka Scrumdiddlyumptious bar from the shop on the corner?" Valentine asked, ruffling the boy's hair "We'll see, you are getting chocolate cake tonight so..."

"Chocolate cake!" shouted Harry only to have a soft hand cover his mouth. The women of the house didn't tell the boy about Mr. Halifax's surprise cake, for if they did, it would no longer be a surprise. Harry could never keep his mouth shut.

"Oh, look what you've done now," growled Poppy, throwing her crimson curls into a bun, "Father's probably awake!" The tall young woman pushed past her kneeling sister, hurrying to the stove, her cheeks turning pink with frustration.

"Watch your tongue, girl," scolded Valentine's mother, "that's your sister yer talkin' to!"

Valentine simply sighed pulling her hair into a simple braid. She and Poppy weren't on the best of terms, to say the least. The women worked quietly from that moment on, Harry resting on Valentine's hip as they prepared the cake. They added cheap white icing and flimsy blue candles which they lit with their last two matches before they carried their Wonka chocolate cake out of the 'kitchen' towards the fireplace where Mr. Halifax sat still, snoring away next to the fire. Valentine's lips quirked as she watched her father's brass spectacles slip down his beak-like nose, shaking with each loud snore. Her mother gave her a knowing look before she leaned over and gently shook her father's shoulder.

"Wha...," he slurred with remaining sleep, before his mouth curved into a Cheshire grin, fiery ginger hair falling over his forehead.

"Well hello! I must have taken a wink, wait, what's this?" he asked, his brown eyes falling on the cake, whose candles illuminate the faces of the family before him.

"Happy Birthday!" sang Valentine, reaching over to embrace her very surprised father. Her mother and Poppy set the cake on the tiny wooden table near the front door and busied themselves over cutting a slice.

"So, my heart," muttered Mr. Halifax to his daughter who was kneeling at his side, "did you notice anything...different about your sister?"

Valentine's eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head to look at her beautiful sister. She saw nothing out of the norm: same auburn curls, same sharp eyes and nose, same prim posture. Wait, on the eyes there was a faint trim of black and on the cheeks a blush of rouge and her lips were cherry red! Poppy never wore make-up for she believed women should not paint their faces, drink alcohol, or do, ahem, illicit acts until they were married or engaged. Poppy was engaged! But that could be, Valentine thought, for Poppy would have to leave the Halifaxes to live with her husband.

"Alright, up with you two silent sparrows," called her mother, beckoning them over to the small table with a cheery grin. After plates were served, grace was prayed, and cheers were given to , Poppy gracefully stood up from her seat.

"Father, Valentine," she started, giving each a curt nod, "I have something to tell you. Lewis and I have been thinking of this for a while and we would like to get married."

Valentine nearly choked on her apple cider. Poppy was engaged to Lewis? As in Lewis Fitzbert, the poor baker's boy down the street? Valentine let her fork fall to the table with a clatter as she stood and faced her sister, who had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.

"Not a single word before his moment, not a sign of your affections for Lewis, not a plan for the rest of us..." the girl trailed off in a whisper, her eyebrows tilted in distress. Each of the Halifax girls pitched in with each of their small jobs, Poppy at the newspaper office and Valentine as a secretary at Threetwood Academy. Both jobs along with their father's job as a book peddler barely supported the modest family, and if Poppy were to settle down and marry Lewis, her money earned at the office would go towards supporting her husband and most likely to-be-born child. Valentine's large brown eyes met those of her sister, whose cool green glace was now tear-glazed and pleading. With a huff of surrender, Valentine shuffled around the table to embrace her sister.

"I'm sorry, Poppy, if you're truly in love we'll make by swell, just swell," Valentine muttered into her sisters shoulder. Her eyes darted to her left where she saw her parents talking in hushed voices near the fire along with Harry with a chocolate covered mouth.

"Thank you, Valentine, I'll do everything I can to help, but I do love him, I do," Poppy cooed, running a hand over her sister's blonde braid. Although she felt happy for her sister, who had finally displayed some sort of emotion after being single for the past four years, Valentine thought of how terribly hard it would be to get a new job.

Valentine Halifax was mistaken.

A/N: Should I continue or should I stop right here and forget this story existed? Your opinion will be treasured.

With Love,

Lady Fairfarren


	2. Chapter the Second:Nefarious Fingerprint

Vanilla

Chapter the Second: Nefarious Fingerprints

Disclaimer: Previously stated: I do not own any recognizable characters or places derived from the original works.

A/N: Another request for reviews and a Thank You to those who have already reviewed.

It was a chilly winter's afternoon in London, nothing out of the norm, save the fact little Charlie Bucket was not in school. Two tall men could be seen making their way down the back alleys of the otherwise empty city, their shadows displayed across the cobblestones. One man walked with hunched shoulders, the other with a cane that clicked when it touched the ground. Above them loomed a dark stone structure, complete with two gruesome gargoyles and an unhinged sign that read "Threetwood Academy" in blocky black print. Several of the stones were chipping, the paint on the front doors peeling, and the smoke that swirled from the chimney stack atop the building smelled like Death himself. Mr. Bucket wondered what he was thinking when he enrolled Charlie into a class here, pulling his red scarf closer around his thin neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his eccentric companion shiver and make a face of disgust.

"You sent him here?" asked Willy Wonka, wiping his gloved hands on his pants as if he could feel the grime of the place already.

"There was no other choice, Willy," sighed Bucket, shoving his hands into his pockets while gazing up at the ominous building.

After a long grim silence, Willy clapped his hands together and turned to his frowning friend.

"Well, let's do what we came here to do: have a nice chat with Mr. Bramwick, go back to the factory and test my new hot cocoa blend! It's made with fresh mint leaves and special vanilla extract only found in two places of the eastern hemisphere, you know," Wonka announced, taking long strides to reach the school, his mind swimming in a chocolate marshmallow haze. Mr. Bucket hurried to the eager candy-maker and gently pushed past his side before he could barge through the large doors to the building, stopping to press gently on the electric intercom button by the door.

Willy listened as the dusty intercom box emitted a few crackles and sputters before a tender feminine voice called the pair to enter, the wired locks letting out a small 'clink'.

"That would be Miss Valentine," explained Mr. Bucket, pushing on the doors which creaked under his soft touch, "Mr. Bramwick's secretary."

Willy grimaced, imaging what it would be like to work for a fellow who whipped his students with a hot leather strip. The secretary might be just as vile, he mused, slightly nervous as he followed Mr. Bucket into the school house. The two men gazed around their surroundings: a cramped room with black and grey peeling wallpaper, several crooked picture frames holding photographs of past stone-faced school masters, a ticking clock whose hands never moved, and a grey wooden desk without anyone behind it. Willy scuffed his leather shoes on the welcome mat, listening to the clock tick while waiting for the so called Miss Valentine.

"Well," he clipped brightly, "it seems that nobody's here so I thin-"

"Hello Mr. Bucket!" exclaimed an even cheerier voice from behind the counter, startling both men and making Willy drop his cane. He hurriedly picked it up by its handle, bending up with a smile and hoping that the speaker didn't see his mishap. Behind the counter now stood a young woman, about nineteen he would guess, wearing a tired yet genuine smile.

The girl, Willy noted, had blonde hair the colour of vanilla spun into a haphazard bun atop her head, fly-aways framing a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were the exact shade as his new coco mix, a deep rich brown, being framed in thick black lashes. Her skin was a cream-like beige toffee, and her lips the color strawberry honeysuckle tarts. Willy saw positively anything in candy-vision, and this girl's colorings were a visual smorgasbord. She was far from beautiful, leaning more towards plain and on the border of 'pretty', but her hair color, lip color, skin color, and eye color were just delicious!

"Mr. Wonka...Mr. Wonka...," a soft voice called, pulling the candy-man from his thoughts and into the school's waiting room again. It would seem to be that he missed an entire conversation between Mr. Bucket and the vanilla-haired girl, in which he was introduced because she now knew his name. His violet eyes tilted downwards to see the small pixie of a woman gazing back with those eyes like hot chocolate.

"He does that sometimes," explained Mr. Bucket, addressing his friend's odd daze to the girl at his side. Willy let out a scoff of indignation and held out a violet leather gloved hand to Miss Valentine whose hand, covered in knit fingerless gloves, clasped his with enthusiasm.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Wonka! My family and I are quite the fans of you and your chocolate," she said brightly, touching her hair self-consciously with one hand, "you probably hear that a lot, though."

Willy Wonka was a man easily flattered, his ego growing just a bit with her praise, "It's always nice to hear it again, Miss..." he trailed off, not knowing her last name.

"Halifax, Valentine Halifax," she stated, "I'm Mr. Bramwick's secretary and Mr. Bucket here says you're here to meet with him about our bright little Charlie?"

Willy observed the girl further, taking note of the smudges of dirt on her pale cheeks and of the small tears and rips in her lavender sweater. Valentine Halifax was poor, he guessed, knowing that a secretary's salary wasn't very good. While his eyes gazed at the small rip just above her chest, he failed to notice the girl's flaming cheeks when she thought he was taking a look at something else entirely. He only blinked when a small pale hand covered the rip and the girl let out an embarrassed cough.

"Hmm," Willy said lifting his eyes to meet the girl's, "Oh yes, Mr. Bramwick..." There was an awkward interval of silence as Willy looked at Valentine, Valentine looked at the candy man, and Mr. Bucket looked at his shoes.

"Well, I shall go tell him you're here then," Valentine concluded, nodding her head, her bun shaking slightly as she swept up her ivory cloth skirt and walked to an adjourning door. Turning the knob, the young woman disappeared into the hall beyond, the faint sound of children's tears leaking into the reception room. Willy fingered the silver 'W' at his throat and gazed around the room once more; with the secretary gone, the place was lacking all colour.

"She'd better come back soon because this place is really starting to bum me out," he muttered, watching a spider scuttle across one of the picture frames. Mr. Bucket sighed, running his hands over his face and wondering how he was going to approach this horrible man who beat his son. His fists clenched at the thought, but he exhaled deeply, trying to keep his wits about him. The unmoving clock continued to tick as Willy rocked back and forth on the heels of his boots, seconds, and minutes passing by as the men waited. After fifteen minutes of rocking and fist-clenching, the door let out a mournful groan as the tiny secretary emerged.

Her bright aura had changed drastically, in a way both men could notice. Her fair hair fell in disarray around her face, reaching her shoulders in knots and frizz. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes wide, and her lips formed an 'o' of distress.

"Mr. Bramwick will see you in his classroom," she stated breathily, "right that way." She opened the creaky door and stepped aside to let the two men pass. Mr. Bucket heard Willy mutter something along the lines of: "not another weird one" before sliding into the narrow hall that lead to Mr. Bramwick's classroom. Willy was still puzzled over the secretary's distressed state when the door behind him shut with a small 'bang' and the sound of muffled tears came from the other side. It was official; he had entered a loony bin. The hall was covered in the same dark striped wallpaper, cobwebs and humming electric lights decorating the walls. The floorboards seem to cry at each step, adding to the dismal atmosphere of the school. Willy was thoroughly disgusted as he brushed a coat of fallen dust from his shoulder, longing to be back in his cozy colourful chocolate factory. Two doors lined each wall with one larger door at the end of the hall, cracked open with a heavy stone doorstop. As the pair walked down the hall, they heard miserable sighs and sobs coming from one of the two doors on the right side. Willy, being curious peered through the small window lodged in the door to see groups of ragged children huddled on the floors of an otherwise empty room, their faces pictures of grief.

'Poor Miss Valentine', he heard one older girl mutter to another who nodded in agreement. How strange, he thought, these kids look dreadful and yet their mourning for another. 'That Mr. Bramwick is stuck on 'er, I tell ye' Marge, dead set on gettin' er', the girl concluded with a bob of her head. Before Willy could listen further, Mr. Bucket's hand tugged gently on his elbow leading him to the ominous room at the end of the hall.

..

..

..

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A man sat in a tall, throne-like chair, its arms like that of some unearthly creature. Willy and Mr. Bucket could only see the two pale hands that were wrapped around either arm.

"Mr. Bucket," drawled the airy voice that came from behind the chair, "it would seem to be that you are here for matters concerning your son, Charles."

"That's correct," Mr. Bucket ground out, through clenched teeth, "you see, Mr. Bramwick, Charlie came home Friday night with red burns on his wrists and with a story on how they got there."

The chair swiveled on hidden wheels and the two angry men came face-to-face with the infamous man. Hugh Bramwick was a tall, gaunt, Ichabod Crane-like man, with hollow cheeks and dark circled eyes. Those eyes were a blue so pale and clear that instead of being beautiful, they were cold and utterly unnerving. He looked to be in his late forties, with the essence of hardened cruelty etched on his face. Dark hair was slicked back on his head, looking like the freshly spilt ink that covered his fingertips. There was a faint undercurrent of lost beauty in this man, and others believed that, if he wasn't so mean spirited, that the teacher could have been harshly handsome.

"Where...," drawled Bramwick with arched eyebrows, "is...your...proof? I may have taken my levels of punishment to a higher level, a level at which they belonged, but if you fail to produce proper evidence, then I'm afraid it's your word against mine," he ended with his hands flourished at his sides. Willy took a few steps forward, his eyebrows furrowed, fully intent of strangling the man, when Mr. Bucket his him back by his arms.

"Oh and who do we have here, flamboyant cane, over-sized top-hat, silver 'W', you, sir, must be the magnificent Willy Wonka, emerged like a bat from his cave," teased Bramwick, his mouth pulled into a smirk.

"The Buckets live with me in my factory now, bet you don't have your own chocolate factory do you," Willy retorted childishly, "and I care for Charlie as if he was my brother, therefore I'm not so happy right now."

"I will report you to Scotland Yard, Bramwick," gritted Mr. Bucket. The placid-faced Bramwick simply arose from his chair like a vampire from its coffin, gliding over to the back corner of the room where there lay a monstrous iron heating stove. Willy and Bucket warily watched as the teacher picked up a steaming strip of leather with ink-blacked fingers.

"It's a curious thing to keep in a classroom," he mused with his airy drawl, "it's also the only piece of proof either of you could supply... it's a pity that Mr. Bramwick has to dispose of it immediately." With that, the man flung open the small window and threw out the strip, where it disappeared under carriages, automobiles, and by-passer's feet, never to be seen again.

"Now that that is done, I must say to you both, good day sirs," Mr. Bramwick muttered, sitting once more in his throne.

"You bastard," growled Mr. Bucket, uncharacteristically.

"I said 'good day'!" exclaimed Bramwick with a snarl, marring his face. The tension amongst the three men was boiling.

"I'm pulling Charlie out of your class," stated Bucket bluntly.

"What's one stupid student?" reasoned Bramwick with a flick of his bony wrist.

"Y'know, you're pretty disgusting," stated Willy before he led Mr. Bucket out of the classroom and down the dismal hallway.

Before they opened the front door and went out into the cold bitter wind, Willy noticed the tear stains on the secretary's cheeks and the inky imprint of a black fingerprint on the rip of her sweater. Poor thing.

A/N: Who can guess the Wonka reference added in this little chapter? Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter the Third: The Vampire of London

Vanilla

Chapter the Third: The Vampire of London

Disclaimer: Previously noted, I do not own any recognizable characters or places derived from the original works

A/N: Simply a large 'Thank You' to those who have reviewed, esp. to the anonymous reviewers.

Warning: rated –T- elements begin here

Valentine Halifax shivered as she glanced nervously at the cracked watch circling her wrist. It was two minutes till seven, and the sun had already set. A single lamp illuminated the reception room, its cobwebs and dreary hostelry. The children had been previously dismissed, their small feet rushing to get out of the building. Some had pieces of grey cloth wrapped around their wrists. She had seen those bandages before, many times in fact, but the young secretary knew better than to meddle around with the teacher's business, whatever that might be. He liked her to be docile and quiet, this she knew, and in order to make a salary that's exactly what she would be. She twiddled her cold fingers while waiting to hear the creaking floor boards of the adjacent hall, the footsteps of her employer. Valentine caught her reflection in one of the picture frames on the wall, her gaze stuck on what she saw: a mess of ghostly pale hair, dark frightened eyes, and dirt smeared cheeks. Why ever would Mr. Bramwick want her? She, again, shivered at the memory of earlier that day, when she went to tell the man about Mr. Bucket.

_She had gingerly made her way down the long hallway that echoed with the sounds of children's sighs and tears, her long skirt grazing the floor. The cold rays of the winter sun peeking out from the cracked door to Mr. Bramwick's office had danced across her eyes, blinding her for a second or two. Her hummingbird heart had jumped when she had knocked gently on his door and a honeyed voice called 'Come'. She had dipped her head as soon as she had entered the room; her eyes had refused to meet those of the spider-like teacher. She had heard the rustling of papers, creaking of floorboards and a guttural sound of satisfaction before she felt the cold fingers on the side of her neck. Cold breath that smelled like sharp mint had caressed her cheek, and her eyes had squinted in mild disgust._

_"My dear girl," he had whispered into her ear, "what a pleasant surprise, you never come into my classroom unless you are called, being the obedient lamb you are. What is the occasion, or are you just eager to see me?"_

_With that he had reached down to remove the pencil that held her bun in place, letting her long blonde hair fall to her shaking shoulders. She had kept her eyes firmly planted on the floorboards as she responded in a stutter, "Ther- there's a Mr. Bucket here to to to see you, sir. H-he wants to, he wants to..." Her voice had trailed off as the teacher started running his spindly fingers through her hair, closing his clear blue eyes and leaning over to press his nose into her blonde strands. His other hand had come to rest over the rip above her breast, his cold finger playing across the lavender fabric of her sweater. Right at that moment her eyes shot up and her two palms pressed against his shoulder blades, pushing him with all her might. _

_She had trembled in fear as her brown eyes met his lust-darkened stare, his chest rising and falling rapidly. She had felt violated, like a dark shadow that wasn't her own was consuming her completely. She had turned to run to the door, sliding out whilst choking back tears, her hand covering her mouth. Those eyes of his had followed her until she had reached the door, watching her as she had run, watching her as her white cloth skirt had lifted to reveal cream colored ankles._

Valentine put her head in her hands, turning her face away from her reflection. She could not comprehend why he would desire her so, but she did know that she certainly didn't reciprocate those feelings. His eyes had been on her ever since she had opened the door to the school, her hands holding the 'Secretary Wanted' sign that he had posted. She hadn't told Poppy of this, or even her mother and father. She knew that they would push her to leave the job and Valentine knew that she could never do that. But now, now she had a chance to leave Threetwood for good, in search of a better-paying job to support the family after Poppy would be married.

Would she have the courage to face the intimidating Hugh Bramwick just as Mr. Bucket and his friend had? This brought a weak smile to her face, the thought of her, a simple secretary, had met the one and only Willy Wonka. It was a thrill to see him in person, for although he had begun to make more appearances outside, hardly anyone got the pleasure of meeting him. He was oddly child-like, she thought, although he was about ten years older than her twenty-one years. If she had to describe his physical appearance, Valentine would say he was...eccentrically handsome with his quirky attire and high cheekbones. The way he had looked at her was much different that Mr. Bramwick did. Before she could continue on that train of thought, the door to the reception room groaned as a tall figure glided inside with untainted elegance.

Speak of the devil and he shall come, thought Valentine, her hands growing cold with fear as she stood to face the man before her. Bramwick's head was tilted as he observed her, his eyes glinting under the glow of the lamp. Valentine, hoping to avoid conversation, slipped into her ragged old coat and walked from behind the desk.

"Dear Valentine, why the rush? It's cold outside, and i think it would be a splendid idea to ride home with me in my automobile," his slippery smooth voice called out to her gently. There was no way she was going to oblige to that!

"I-I can't Mr. Bramwick, my sister is meeting me at the corner and she wishes to take a walk with me, to share some details about her wedding," Valentine lied fluently.

She was about to reach for the doorknob to leave the school when a hand wrapped around her wrist, a body shuffling her against a wall. Inky hair brushed against her flushed cheeks and Mr. Bramwick's hands held her hips against the wall. Her eyes watered as she tried to escape his grip, making the man growl in frustration.

"Sir...," she tried but before she could say a single word, his mouth covered hers ravenously, cold lips bruising her own. She was trapped and there was nothing she could do but stand there limp in the man's grasp. His hands ran down her sides, as he continued to tease her lips with brushes of teeth and tongue. Valentine's tears streamed down her face as he continued to touch her. When he finally broke away from her lips to catch his breath, he bent his head and nipped her neck with a feral growl. Valentine grabbed his hands on her hips and pried them from her figure, again pushing against his shoulders to free herself. She scrubbed her bruised lips with the back of her hand, pulling her coat closer to her body as she and Bramwick stared at each other.

"Leave me be," she cried, her voice cracking, "I...I don't return your affections, and I refuse to be a simpering marionette in your grasp. Just, leave me be," she ended in a sigh, her tears stopping. Hugh Bramwick's eyes, dark circled with the slightest hint of crow's feet, narrowed at the small woman before him, his tongue darting across his lips.

"You belong to me, Valentine Halifax, just remember that now," he whispered firmly, a storm brewing behind the calm lakes that were his eyes.

"No I don't sir, if you don't mind, I am a human being and I cannot be treated as a possession," she protested, taking the man aback for it was the first time she had challenged him. Valentine then grabbed her black scarf from off the table and wrapped it round her neck before grabbing the doorknob. Opening the door, flurries of snow dancing over her face, she turned back once more.

"Good night, Mr. Bramwick," she said, making it perfectly clear to the man inside that she wasn't coming back the next day.

"Silly girl, don't you know that I-"

"I said good night," she retorted before slamming the door and running out under the flickering lights of the streetlamps, a bud of confidence growing in her chest. She grabbed the pin on her sweater that read 'Miss Halifax: Secretary' and threw it over her shoulder, leaving it rest in a pile of snow.

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..

..

Willy chewed on his cotton candy flavored pencil as he gazed intently at the sheets of paper before him. The oompa loompas had actually done it! The test before him was very difficult, made up of English Literature, Algebra, Human Sciences, and World Knowledge along with a few trick questions thrown in to test the candidates common sense. It was perfect for finding the ideal tutor for Willy. The plan was that the oompa loompas would design a test, so difficult it would take a very clever individual to complete, and invite exactly one hundred aspiring tutors into the factory to complete the test in the newly added 'Testing Room'. On each test there would be a small picture of sorts, a flower for instance.

They would remain anonymous until the next day when Willy would get the names of the pictures on the tests of the best candidates, and would then invite them into his office. If they appeared to be rude or uncivil, he would rule them out until the very kindest most intelligent candidate was left. Suitably satisfied with what he had accomplished, Willy rubbed his hands together and stood up from his large gold chair. He felt something tickling his neck and looked down to see that his chestnut colored hair reached half way down his pale neck.

"This just won't do," he muttered before striding down the warm halls that smelled of chocolate and sugar to find an oompa loompa who could cut his hair. The sound of a little boy's laughter bubbled through the corridor along with the sound of a movie soundtrack that Willy knew well; Charlie was watching the Sound of Music again. As the candy man waltzed to his personal salon, he stopped near the theater room and peeked his top-hatted head inside. There they were, the joyful Bucket family, sitting near the large television, popcorn sprinkled on the scarlet carpet before them.

A small smile spread across Willy's face as he watched Mr. and Mrs. Bucket kiss exactly when Maria and Georg did onscreen, emitted a sound of disgust from Charlie who covered his eyes with his mitten-clad hands. At that moment Willy wondered what it would be like to kiss a woman, a thought that hadn't entered his boy-like mind before. This thought tickled him all day, making him wonder would a lady's lips be soft. Where would he put his hands? Would she smell nice? He gave his newly cut hair a shake, trying to erase such thoughts from his head. Willy Wonka did not, under any circumstances, want to grow up, for if he did, his chocolate just wouldn't taste the same.

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..

Valentine stumbled blindly up the dark stairs to the flat where her family lived, placing a trembling hand over the sore bite mark on her neck. She couldn't wait outside forever so she raised a small fist to knock gently on the door. It swung open immediately the home's buttery warm glow washing over her night accustomed eyes as a tiny figure rushed at her legs, wrapping its arms around them and not letting go.

"When are we goin'teh get a scrum "alentine?" whined Harry, his sapphire eyes twinkling up at his fatigued sister. The girl in question simply grabbed the little boy from off the cold ground and placed him on the curve of her hip, taking a few shaky steps to get inside. There she saw her father humming in his chair near the fire, reading a newspaper two days old, and her mother and Poppy bent over skirt patterns for wedding dresses. Before she could even open her lips to chirp 'hello', Harry poked a small finger at her red marked neck.

"Mum, Da, Valentine's been attacked by a vampire! I told you Poppy, I told you they were real! I bet its teeth were the size of-"

"Enough Harry!" exclaimed Mrs. Halifax, placing down her sewing kit to rush over to her anxious daughter, who was still shivering from the cold.

"What is all this fuss, love?" the plump woman questioned, two round hands prying a pouting Harry from off her daughter's hip. The frazzled woman scrutinized the side of Valentine's neck, making the girl flinch when she placed two warm fingers on the bite mark. Poppy and Mr. Halifax had gotten up to swarm the youngest daughter who was shaking like an autumn leaf, avoiding all eye contact.

"What in the blazes is this, you'd better be explaining pretty soon, Valentine Augusta Halifax!" cried Mrs. Halifax, her face turning violet with rage, not directed at her daughter but to whoever bit her in such an indecent manner. Pressure weighed down on Valentine as she felt all their gazes, blue, green, and brown alike, burning at her sides. There was no possible chance of lying.

"It's a bite mark, Mum," Valentine choked out, wetting her lips and keeping her gaze on the dusty floor.

"Don't you be cheeky with me, Val," warned Poppy with a skeptical gaze, "what happened?"

A stray tear leaked from out of the corner of the blonde's eye as she lifted her head.

"Mr. Bramwick." She went on to tell a watered down version of her encounter, her family's narrowed glances growing watery and sympathetic. Mr. Halifax, when the last word from valentine was uttered, silently grabbed his coat and hat and stormed out the apartment, slamming the door with a force that made the whole complex rattle.

"Off to find that cad, I suppose," muttered Mrs. Halifax, rubbing her daughter's back while forcing a mug of hot tea into her hands. Valentine simply shook her head, sending blonde strands flying everywhere, as she retreated back into the 'kitchen' and huddled on little Harry's mat by the stove. Every time she would close her eyes, she would see his. Every time she pulled the blankets closer around her figure, she felt his vice-like arms around her. She may have left Hugh Bramwick, but he certainly did not leave her.

A/N 2: things will get less grim, I promise, but please leave a little contribution in that little box! Much obliged,

Lady Fairfarren


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